


Bloody Knuckles / Longing for Home

by Rhobot



Series: Season 13 Codas [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: A Punch is Thrown, Anger is a Stage of Grief, Castiel Loves Dean Winchester, Coda, Dean Winchester Loves Castiel, First Kiss, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Minor Violence, Post-Episode: s13e05 Advanced Thanatology, both physical and emotional
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-17
Updated: 2017-11-17
Packaged: 2019-02-03 11:40:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,914
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12747597
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rhobot/pseuds/Rhobot
Summary: If it weren't for second chances, we'd all be alone.This isn't a second chance; hell, it isn't even the third or the fourth. It's somewhere around the fifth or sixth, Dean figures -- he's lost count, really. But by whatever miracle, whatever twist of fate, whatever heard his prayer, Castiel is here. Alive. He was certainly, undeniably dead but he'salive. And Dean doesn't know if this is his last chance or just another chance in a line of infinite chances that this beautiful, infuriating, stubborn being is going to keep giving him for some unfathomable reason; he's not going to throw this one away.Of course, any of that would've been really great for him to consider before throwing a punch.





	Bloody Knuckles / Longing for Home

**Author's Note:**

> This coda is late. Or it's early. I won't be able to watch 13x06 until Sunday, probably, so early for me, late for some of you. Time is an illusion, here are some emotions; namely, I felt that Dean would be torn between punching Cas and kissing him, because I was, personally, torn between the emotions of punching Cas or hugging him. Projection? Anyways, I settled on the age-old adage, "Why don't we have both?"

The payphone barely holds the line open for ten minutes and Dean cuts the three hour drive through the night in half. One of Sam’s hands clutches the door handle and the other grips tight around his phone, which occasionally chirps directions for turns that Dean takes too sharp, too fast, hands white-knuckled on the steering wheel, heart in his throat.

“This one, here, yeah, this one,” Sam says as they go from the middle of nowhere to the outskirts of a city in the middle of nowhere, and Dean turns off the road and into the alley. The white-blue light like grace of the neon cross makes Dean blink back tears, because _come on_ , and then, half-real in the red light of this alley that smells like rain and trash and car exhaust, he’s stepping out and forward, and whoever this is, who called Dean with _his_ voice either got that coat so wrong or so very right – it’s longer, darker, and it fits him better, and when he slowly turns the tie isn’t the same but it’s the proper shade of dark blue that’s almost black in the low light.

By gravity and inevitability Dean’s eyes lift to the face, to the blue bright, shining like glass and his breath catches in his throat; his heart starts beating for the first time in weeks, because it is _him_.

It’s him.

He wasn’t sure, even as he’d hoped against all his doubts, faith kindling again and, _God_ , it hurt in the way that nothing but hope hurts. He wasn’t sure, even as he’d floored the Impala through the darkness, wasn’t sure as he answered Sam’s question with a broken _It’s Cas._

It is Castiel. Dean knows. Call it gut, call it heart, call it profound bond – hell, call it _love_ ; it’s Castiel. He knows it even before he opens his mouth to say _Hello, Dean._

“Hello, Dean,” Castiel says, smile fluttering like Dean’s heart, haloed in the light of that payphone like so much holiness, like a miracle.

The kind of miracle that Dean isn’t supposed to get, isn’t supposed to have but here it is, here _he_ is, again – dead and back, again, again. Dean has to close his eyes, has to draw in a deep and shaking breath through his nose.

When he opens his eyes, Castiel is still standing there, serene and whole and alive, like he was never stabbed, like the light and life never blazed out of him, like he was never cold and still, never burned to ash that Dean still _tastes,_ gasping awake from nightmare after nightmare of memory, and now he’s _back_.

Rage, then, or something like it, bubbled up from hysteria, on relief, on all the grief not even half-processed – denial, anger, bargaining, depression, acceptance, and never in that order – and Dean’s pretty sure he’s been sitting stubbornly at _anger_ , all bared teeth and raw knuckles, and so it’s not really surprising when he steps forward, chest all heat, all pain and _how dare you_ , and he’s got his fist clenched, and then raised, and then he’s swinging.

It slams into flesh and there’s a _crack_ and someone shouts – maybe it’s him, maybe it’s Sam, maybe it’s Cas, but Dean doesn’t pay it mind, because he’s yelling, words pouring out of him, narrow-visioned and blood-rushed,

“You _son of a bitch!_ What the _hell_ were you thinking, Castiel, you— you couldn’t stay put for five freaking minutes and follow the plan, you ass, you goddamn, you son of a bitch, Cas, don’t you know— don’t you _know_?”

Castiel doesn’t answer. And it’s not just because Dean isn’t making much sense, chest heaving and breath huffing; it’s because he’s still got his hands over his face, half doubled over, and Sam’s at his side, hand hovering at his shoulder, alternating between asking “What the hell, Dean!” and “Are you okay, Cas?”

Dean blinks, flexes his hand and feels the faint soreness, the echo of contact, and suddenly realizes that Castiel had been _moved_ by that punch, had felt it.

“Cas, what?” The rage is all burnt out of him, and a chill rushes into its place, sobering his heart. He steps forward and Sam looks like he’s about to start swinging at Dean. “Are you—” _okay?_ he stops himself from asking, because _clearly not_ , just back from the dead and socked in the face, goddammit Winchester. “Why aren’t you healing?”

Castiel says something that’s muffled and nasally and unintelligible and both Sam and Dean say, in unison, “What?” 

Castiel sighs like the most long-suffering person on the planet, which is a title he’s surely earned by now. He peels his eyes open and looks at Dean but there’s no malice there, no glare of offense, just something that glitters a little like humor. “I’m human,” he says, lowering his hands from his face, from his nose, swelling and trickling blood. He tries to look down at it, wrinkling his face and then winces, covering it back up. “ _Ow_.”

 _Oh shit—_ “Shit, Cas, shit.” Now Dean is hovering over him, cursing himself, anxious hands roving in the space just above Castiel’s body, certain that he’s lost the right to touch him now. “ _Shit_ — is it broken, can I…?” He’s about to ask Sam if he’ll check, instead, because Castiel probably doesn’t want Dean, who _punched him in the face_ , to examine his injury when Castiel looks at him with a softness he doesn’t deserve and lowers his reddened hands for Dean to look.

“I’m alright, Dean,” Castiel says, a slight nasal whine blurring his voice.

“Yeah, I’ll be the judge of that, c’mere.” Dean’s now-careful fingertips press into Castiel’s jaw, guiding the tilt of his head so that he can get a better angle. He can feel his pulse, and the warmth of his skin. Castiel’s eyes watch him with calm patience. His nose is just swollen, not crooked, and the bleeding seems to be slowing to a stop, and there’s a lot less of it than Dean thought there was, when all he could see was the scarlet on Castiel’s hands. “I don’t think it’s broken,” Dean says, at last. He feels more relieved than Castiel looks. “We’ll get you some ice before we head home.”

“Home,” Castiel echoes, as if _that’s_ the miracle here.

“Yeah, Cas. Home,” Dean says, rubbing a thumb over his stubble, and the warm skin beneath it, lost in the awe of _he’s here. He’s alive and I can touch him._ “Hasn’t felt like home without you,” he says, like an apology. And then, because _like_ an apology isn’t good enough, “Sorry ‘bout punching you.”

Castiel just laughs, and the sound is brighter than the sun that hasn’t yet risen, and Dean’s heart thaws in its warmth. Castiel lifts his hands to where Dean’s fingers still linger on his jaw, cups and captures them with his own and holds on with gentle and reassuring forgiveness. “My life seems to follow a certain narrative circle.”

“Glad I didn’t stab you this time.” Dean leans in, meets Castiel in the middle and their foreheads rest against each other. Close enough for here, for now, for this moment.

“I am grateful for that as well.” Castiel smiles, and that’s the first good ache Dean has felt in weeks; this ache of affection, and he closes his eyes, presses closer.

“God, I missed you,” he says, but what he means is _I love you_.

“I know. I’m sorry,” Castiel replies, and what Dean hears is _I love you_.

And then, because what is said in the unsaid isn’t good enough, not anymore – Dean thought Castiel was _gone_ ; he was _dead_ ; Dean wrapped his body, burned him; he’s been given so many chances and each could’ve been his last but Castiel keeps coming back, keeps giving him chance after chance and this one – _this one_ – is the one Dean is finally going to seize.

“I love you, you know,” Dean says, pulling back just enough to meet Castiel’s eyes. Eyes that widen, and his face lights up, and hell, Dean is going to say it every chance he has because _joy_ is such a good look on Castiel, who is staring at him, _beaming_.

Castiel draws in a trembling breath. “I didn’t, I— I’d _hoped_ , but I…” Tears gather in his eyes, and Dean carefully, so carefully presses his lips to his cheek, under his eye, catches the salt of a falling teardrop as Castiel’s breath hitches. “You too,” he says. “I mean, I love you, too.” Dean’s lips are pulled into a smile as he kisses the other cheek, blesses the tears into holy water.  

Castiel squeezes his hands where they’re still joined, holding on, as if he’s afraid to let this moment go. “This is real, isn’t it?” He asks, softly, and Dean draws back, only the little bit of distance he can stand.

“It’s real, Cas.” He feels the tears in his own eyes and he doesn’t care; doesn’t care that his brother’s probably watching, doesn’t care that they’re in some dirty alley, or that he’s shaking not just because it’s November and the middle of the night. “It’s real; you’re real, you’re _here_ and you’re _home_.”

Castiel is nodding, believing it, and even if he doesn’t yet Dean is going to remind him every day, for as long as it takes, because Dean is going to need that time too, to know that his faith is back, to believe this. And then Castiel is reaching for him, pulling him closer, and Dean frantically remembers to say, “Careful, your nose—” and Castiel is probably one of the only people who has rolled his eyes before kissing someone; they’re kissing then, and _oh_ , and _this_ is what Dean meant by _home_ and being there— _this_ is Dean’s home, this is Castiel’s home, this is where they belong, this is where he’s always belonged, lips pressed together, desperate and careful and jubilant and a million perfect things all at once.

They only part to breathe, and Dean rests his head in the space between Castiel’s neck and his shoulder, breathing him in, wrapping his arms around him as Castiel does the same. “I love you,” Dean says, feeling Castiel shiver for more than the reason that it’s cold and damp and dark. There’re other things to say – things like _don’t leave_ , and _you are worth so much more than you think_ , and the litany of countless apologies for the harms between both of them, but tonight _I love you_ is enough. It will always be enough. More than enough.

“I love you,” Castiel says, in his ear and holding onto him tightly like he’s never going to go.

They pull apart, slowly, at the sound of a cough, and Dean turns to see Sam standing by the Impala, looking sheepish but the sap has tears in his own eyes.

Sam lifts the bag that he’s holding. “I, uh, got some ice.”

For some reason this is hilarious; it starts with a laugh bubbling from Dean and then Castiel catches it, and then Sam’s laughing too, and then he’s closing the distance and trying to hand Castiel the ice for his poor nose, but Castiel is too preoccupied hugging and then being hugged by Sam, and then Dean gets pulled in, too, and it’s one warm and overjoyed group hug, a proper family hug.

“Welcome home, Cas,” Dean says, and they all hold each other tighter.   

**Author's Note:**

> Title is from Gregory Alan Isakov's "Second Chances"
> 
> You can find me pouring out my love for Castiel and surprising myself by writing short fiction on [tumblr](https://honeyed-wings.tumblr.com/)


End file.
